Steam curls like foreplay.
I'm naked except for a silk wrap that doesn't wrap much and a layer of gold-dusted body oil so thick I could probably slide across a marble floor and kill a man with momentum alone. There's a slave girl massaging my calves, another one scrubbing my back with rose-scented salt, and a third doing things to my scalp that have me moaning like a temple bell at the solstice.
"Gods," I gasp, eyes rolling. "Is this what nobility feels like? Because I could get very morally compromised about this real quick."
The daughter—reclined beside me on a cushioned stone bench, arms draped across a eunuch's shoulders while he fans her with perfumed palm fronds—gives me a lazy smile.
"This is just a Tuesday."
I twitch.
"A Tuesday?"
She hums, tilting her head as one of the bath attendants begins painting her toenails with crushed orchid paste. "On Fridays we get the cocoa butter scrub and sangria. Weekends are for hair masks and gossip."
One of the eunuchs—a silent, muscular one with eyes like nothing phases him—kneads my shoulders. Something pops in my spine. I see stars. I let out a noise I will never admit was mine.
"Marry me," I mutter into the marble.
"You're already engaged to me," the daughter reminds.
"I meant the masseur."
She laughs. "Too late. He's married to the state."
Another girl—barefoot, bronzed, with soft hands and even softer smirk—slips between my knees and starts polishing my thighs with sandalwood cream.
"Ohhh fuck," I moan, arms going limp. "This is obscene. This is illegal. This is… why did I ever run away from anything in my life?"
"Because you're chaotic and allergic to structure?"
"Rude. But not wrong."
The daughter stretches luxuriously, her breasts glistening under a sheer wet cloth. "I used to hate these days. All the sitting still. But now…" She glances sideways at me. "It's more fun with someone."
I raise a lazy brow. "Someone chained, oiled, and groaning?"
"Exactly."
She sips something fruity from a jade cup. I open my mouth to ask for one, but a slave girl has already placed one in my hand. Passionfruit wine. Cold. Sweet. Dangerous.
I take a long drink and let my head fall back.
"Okay," I murmur. "So maybe... maybe... I don't have to escape today."
The daughter clinks her cup to mine. "That's the spirit."
A chorus of attendants begins plaiting my hair with gold thread.
I sigh.
Tomorrow I'll plan my escape.
Today? I'm a goddess.
And if this is captivity, then bind me in pearls and call it prophecy.
The next wave of pleasure is supposed to be a tray of honey-glazed figs.
I know this because the scent hits first—warm, sticky, intoxicating—like sex and sugar had a baby and rolled it in cinnamon. My mouth is already half-open in anticipation when I glance up, one lazy hand reaching out.
And freeze.
The tray wobbles.
The girl holding it stares at me like she's seen a ghost.
I stare back like I've just been kicked in the chest by the past.
"Loma?"
Her lip trembles. "Saya?"
The figs tumble to the floor.
I'm on my feet so fast the eunuchs flinch. The silk wrap tries to betray me—traitorous thing—but I catch it mid-flap and grab Loma by the wrist, dragging her toward the farthest, steamiest corner of the bath chamber. A marble screen and a heavy curtain give us some illusion of privacy. The daughter calls after me, confused, but I ignore her. This is bigger. This is—
"Loma, gods," I whisper, cupping her face. "Is it really you?"
She nods, eyes wide and glossy, lips wobbling like she's not sure whether to cry or faint.
I scan her. No makeup. No jewelry. Collar, yes. Not decorative. She's thinner than before. Paler. That look of stunned, simmering shame I know too well.
"What are you doing here?" she whispers.
I exhale. "Getting married, apparently."
She blinks. "To… a woman?"
"Yes."
"Willingly?"
I cough. "That part's fuzzy."
She stares at me like she can't believe it. Then her shoulders slump.
"I'm so happy for you," she murmurs.
My throat tightens.
"Loma—what happened?"
She looks down, fiddling with the edge of her tray apron. "After the tower… they took the samovar."
"Oh no."
"And me."
"Oh shit."
She nods slowly. "Apparently there were debts. And I counted as an asset. They sold me to this bathhouse. Said I'd earn my keep." Her voice cracks. "Haven't yet."
My hands curl into fists at my sides. "I'm going to burn this place down."
"No," she says quickly. "Please. They don't beat me. I even get pastries sometimes. I…" She swallows hard. "I serve noblewomen. It's not… that bad."
"Loma," I whisper, stepping closer, "you're carrying trays."
"And you're wearing a leash," she says with a crooked smile.
Touché.
"I'll get you out," I say.
She shakes her head. "No. You're about to marry into wealth. Comfort. I won't ruin that."
I grip her wrist gently. "You wouldn't ruin anything. But gods, if I had known—"
"You were gone," she says simply. "We all end up somewhere."
Her eyes flick up to mine.
"Maybe… maybe this is enough for me. Pretty clothes. Sweets. Warm water. A place to sleep."
"That's not freedom."
She shrugs. "It's what I've got."
I breathe through my nose. The figs on the floor are bleeding syrup. Loma smells like honey and bath oils and quiet surrender.
I grip her tighter. "I'm getting you out anyway."
She smiles, a little. "You always say that."
And then—
From the other room, a sharp, imperious cry:
"SAAAAAYAAAAA!"
Not a question. A command. A thunderclap in lace.
I freeze.
Loma does too.
She looks at me, small again. That quiet kind of small that happens when someone remembers they've been left before.
"Duty calls," I mumble. Not quite sarcastic. Not quite not.
Loma bites her lip. Her eyes shine, but no tears fall. "You have to go."
I nod. "Apparently, I'm late for my own ridiculous life."
Then I lean in and kiss her.
Quick. Warm. Just long enough to mean everything and not enough to stop anything.
When I pull back, she's not smiling. But she's breathing easier.
"I'll come back," I say, already lying.
She knows it. Doesn't call me on it.
The voice calls again, sharper this time.
I grab the nearest robe and turn to go.
Behind me, Loma whispers, "You always leave before the figs."
I pause in the doorway. "Yeah, well. Maybe one day I'll stay for dessert."
Then I'm gone—back into the perfume, the marble, the mess I'm accidentally going to marry.